


Prologue: Birth of Anonymity

by Embrathiel



Series: The Druidic Cleansing [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-02-01 22:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embrathiel/pseuds/Embrathiel
Summary: The magical segment of the Druid population, cast out at the start of the Renaissance Era for supposed dark magic, returns to the magical world.  One member of their community steps in to save Harry Potter amidst the graveyard, hoping to save the world from a threat they could never have expected.  This prologue is not necessary for the epic that follows.
Series: The Druidic Cleansing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540591
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Prologue: Birth of Anonymity

Breudd, High Priest of the Druids mourned that the sorrows of his time must be handled with fear and pain. The beauty of the summer solstice seemed to mock his inner sorrow, as if the sun understood his misery, and yet sought to burn away his regret with disdain. Such personifications however were left to the non-magical Druids, those that still believed in the gods and goddesses. Leaving behind such beliefs had been a terrible revelation to his people, the result of magical understanding that surpassed much of the scientific world. Would this day prove to be the greater blow to his folk, those he was supposed to protect?

Looking across the Black Lake at the Spire they had held sacred for so many centuries, Breudd knew that it wasn’t this day that would be of harm, but the results of it. The day when once again the Spire was used to train young Magicians in the arts of the free magics; the day when the Spire was seen as the beautiful work of unrestrained magical art that it was; when the Druids could once again roam the land freely, that day would shake the world. No society could be erased temporarily and not cause a backlash upon its reawakening. Amongst the magical world alone, as small as it was, his people were prominent and respected; powerful.

Now though as Breudd looked over the glowing runes that lay inscribed upon the hilltop, he knew that the darkness that had crept in to the minds of the wand users could not be overcome with respect and kind words. Even in the dying sunlight the runes shone a vibrant amber. As beautiful as the script they were formed from might be, the purpose of the circle was as contrasted as it could be. This spell was intended to cut, deeply, no love was here held. There was likely to be a rediscovery of this spell by the wand users, something Breudd neither intended to delay, nor held any concern over. Them learning to craft this without a runic circle would not allow them to locate what had been lost. His secret, his people, would be safe for as long as necessary.

His eyes tracked to the secondary circle, alight with script embossed in verdant green, the protector circle. Within rested the honoured relic, a hat once worn by the founder Godric Gryffindor and imbued with consciousness and knowledge well beyond the purpose it was now put to. They would never suspect that the relic used to sort their young would be that which held the secret they had rejected. The onset of the Renaissance had slipped through the various cultures of the world and was changing perceptions and ideals. New sciences brought grand discoveries to the non-magical world even as those who wielded the powers of creation turned against one another. His people, his family, were being branded as bearers of dark magic. Their attempts to discourage this new way of thinking had failed drastically.

Magic which had once been seen by those without it as a sacred curiosity were now living in fear of that which could not be within their control. That same fear within the world of magic was transferred to those who were unrestricted in their control of the elements. Wands were powerful in their own right, allowing for the use of spells beyond mere elemental influence, but it was not seen this way. To bear the winds or fires of the sun and control them without a totem or item of focus was a concern to those restricted to one. They saw it as dark magic, too free, too unrestrained. Unholy.

Bile rose within as Breudd raised his right hand, gathering his power. If only it didn’t have to come to this. Across the lake and high upon its hill, the Hogwarts castle glittered in the fading embers of the longest day of the year. If Breudd didn’t do this now, the Spire, his people, might not be able to perform this spell come next summer. The spell as large as it was, required the additional power the day granted him. Without it, the scope would be limited. This being the centre of the esoteric, of England’s magical power, required deep ties to be cut. Beloved ties. From the castle extended a bridge supported by arched columns that dove beneath the water to the lakebed. In the precise centre of the lake rose the Spire, a masterpiece of nature formed by stone and artistic love. He tried to fix its beauty in to his mind. The graceful whorls and designs, the depictions fo plants and vines written in granite and marble, the lush gardens that bloomed upon every balcony.

Stomach clenching, Breudd let the pent up air out of his lungs, and with it, the gathered energy he had stored from the ritual. Borne upon the last rays of a dying sun, borne upon his hopes and tear-filled dreams, borne upon the solstice blessing, the ritual power snapped forward and ripped apart his world. A deafening report smote the air as the bridge connecting Hogwarts to the Spire shattered from stone in to dust, morphing as it hung in the air in to a million million droplets of water that cascaded downward in a momentary torrent of rain. That rain joined the waters of the lake, then fell still, forgotten, unseen. For its part, the Spire itself simply sank, quietly churning the waters of the lake as it dropped ever lower beneath the surface. Even when its peak was submerged, Breudd felt it as the tower moved lower, lower, and then beneath the lake’s murky bottom.

\----

Breudd blinked at the arc of rosy sunlight that grace the horizon. It lent a strangely beautiful cast to the turrets and sparkling windows of the castle nearby, a sight he always cherished. Such a beautiful sight, if only the Druids could have been allowed to enhance it, build upon it. If only they could have left a mark of beauty upon the edifice of stone.

A small cough drew his attention to the grass beside him where the sorting hat of all things lay.

“Honoured relic?”

“High Priest. You are uncertain as to what you have just done, I presume?”

“I, yes. I thought I had a purpose here this day.”

“Within your satchel is a letter of which you wished me to inform you. It will explain what must be. I shall of course keep my silence. As such, i must return to my shelf lest others wonder at my ability to move so freely within the wards.”

“Yes, of course. I, I shall thank you, regardless of my inability to know what fogs my thoughts.”

“The honour is mine. Good day High Priest Breudd.”

Once the hat vanished, Breudd dug through his bag and withdrew a piece of parchment that looked to be stained with droplets of water.

\----

It is to my undying sorrow that I must hold from even myself what I have wrought. I shall claim no renown or praise in my workings. I shall sanctify myself in the knowledge that my people are protected. Know this, whilst my people are decried as bearers of dark magic, we can not remain in the open. Therefore, this sacrifice of knowledge, of awareness, must be made. Though it tears me to break apart our livelihood, our culture to do so, I ground myself in the knowledge that our children, our elders, our women and men are all to be saved by this loss.

Words can not share what I have taken from myself, from all my people. That is not my burden to bear in future days. Know that greatness has been done this day, regardless of what better solutions may arise in my mind. As we slide in to anonymity, as is our need, we shall be safe again, safe in silence. We shall train our young within our homes. We shall protect our knowledge within the bounds of our minds and wards. We shall practice the magics of the moon and stars and sun with open hands and hearts. To weep for what is lost is right and unnecessary.

Be blessed in knowing that this day, a greater protection for our future has been wrought. Foggy thoughts are the protector of what was once vulnerable. Though hiding from the world is undesirable, it is hoped that one day our children and their children will once again share their love of this world with those not skilled as they. Be blessed beneath the sun, High Priest Breudd. Despite what uncertainty brings, this day was worth all that it sacrificed. Knowledge may be given to protect lives. Beauty may be given to protect future. Life shall persist, even hidden amongst the shadows as it is.

Blessed be.

\----

New droplets joined the old, marring Breudd’s script and blurring his vision. This sorrow, this working he had forced, was necessary. He would not have lied to himself in words such as those.

With a regretful frown, Breudd sent a spark of fire through the fibres of the paper, turning it to ash in an instant. Though the solstice was drawing to an end, Breudd felt tired, the energy that normally flowed through a body the entirety of the holy day was gone. Whatever he had done had been costly, draining. He gripped the weaves of air that flowed across the land and pulled himself out of his present location and back to his home. Without a sound or whisper of memory, the hilltop was left empty. No trace remained of priest or circle, no memory or tear, no rune or worry. Even the sunken sun had forsaken that insignificant place.

\----

As victorious as the moment was, Voldemort could feel only disappointment for himself.

Rising from the steaming cauldron, glorious in the body he had made with alchemy and potions, he knew that many errors had been made. In his quest for power and immortality, he had challenged long-held beliefs and delved in to magics previously thought lost to the histories. As such, he grew in knowledge and wisdom. However, the magics he utilised took from him stability, a sacrifice he had once been willing to make. Immortality had been worth slight insanity. However, creating seven horcruxes had been too much for his mind. It had resulted in several plans and schemes going far out of the bounds of desirable and meaningful. Oh Voldemort could remember every minute of it, and see for himself just how much of a fool he had been in the past.

The past however was over.

“Robe me Wormtail,” he purred out of the cloud of smoke and steam that embraced his naked flesh as had once the flows of magic so powerful even Albus Dumbledore would have broken. Soon it would be his to bear, once only felt and seen, now to be brought to bear by his will.

When he had sacrifice fragments of his soul and sanity to the world to ensure his future, Voldemort had given something else of himself. He had given magic. It was one thing to use magic in a ritual, but it was another to sacrifice part of one’s core, a fragment of the great well within a person’s body from which all magic came. No one ever considered it because the mere thought of doing such a thing was blasphemous, wrong, unholy. The Druids of old had never done this either, but they were the key, the piece of the puzzle Voldemort had considered that no one else had. In sacrificing a sliver of his core for each horcrux, he granted each anchor an element, a power to be held if only it was returned to the body.

It was a failsafe, so that if an anchor was destroyed, Voldemort would be better able to protect himself as his mortality grew.

But that was shortsighted. Why wait until others were destroying his horcruxes? Why not absorb them and claim the powers they granted?

“My wand, Wormtail.”

Two years ago, fire had ripped through his soul, making Voldemort burn even as sanity and fresh strength returned to him. One of his anchors had been shattered. It had brought with it fire. It had brought with it a loophole, a bypass to power. The initial sacrifice of magic along with a fragment of his soul had lived for fifty years, and grown. The sacrifice had absorbed one of the great elements once wielded by the Druids and upon its return, granted its full power to him. Blasphemy, and power.

He would need to train, of course, but the instinct of the element was given, the power, the strength, the fire.

Tom Riddle waved his wand in careless ease, sending away the fading vapours that blocked his view of the darkened graveyard. Within his veins burned a fire that could not be quenched, a strength that should not have been his, that should not have been possible. But after all, he was Tom Riddle, Voldemort, the Dark God of England.

Fire would obey him now as easily as the air he breathed.

The fools would burn; in the fires of his roth, in the fires of revolution, in the fires that flowed from his hands like streamers of living death.

His pawns approached. They flocked to him like frightened children before a whip that could reach them no matter where they hid. They were frail, but necessary. What was a god without servants, without an army. He had mistreated them, been too harsh. He had tortured them for simple failures which had only made them weaker. He had let their skills fade, so confident in their prowess that he had not provided them training.

He had sent them to their deaths on pointless ventures. Rather than gathering and providing a solid hammer-blow to a single target, Voldemort had overreached, assaulting anything and anyone that irritated him. He had bred fear, yes, but there were other ways to to such without risking the lives of his peasants so needlessly. He would help them grow stronger in number and skill, and they would worship him anew.

And to begin, and demonstrate his glory, Voldemort would burn Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, to the ground with fire they could not comprehend.

\----

Harry Potter rather felt that he was entirely capable in this moment, of reassigning the duties of the worst day of his life. Even after fighting a basilisk and a possessed diary, or fending off a hundred dementors, or even after unintentionally killing a possessed professor, nothing could come close to this. Whisked away from the tournament he had no interest in participating in, Harry had then been helpless to stop the death of Cedric Diggory. The spare.

The spare.

Cedric should have been the only Hogwarts champion, and now he was dead because Voldemort had managed to get Harry dragged in to the tournament against his will. And somehow that made Cedric the spare. It wasn’t right by any interpretation.

Considering how Harry’s opinion and feelings had been neglected on so many occasions, Cedric being called the spare, seconds before his death, seemed rather twisted and ironic. For once Harry wasn’t the spare, and now he wished he had been. Cedric would have been able to find a way out of this, he was sure of it. Even worse, as much as Harry was glad Ron and Hermione were far away from here and safe, not having them around only made him feel worse. He was all on his own, and there was no golden phoenix coming to his rescue this time. It would be a miracle if they even knew he was in danger right now.

No, Harry Potter was quite likely to die today.

Dying might not have been so bad, but for Voldemort’s sick need to touch Harry’s scar, which made Harry’s head feel like it was going to explode. The tosser had laughed and sung his own praises before adding to Harry’s pain by cursing him with the Cruciatus until Harry’s mind went fuzzy. The pain was beyond anything he could have imagined in his worst nightmares. And when he came to, he was surrounded by laughing death eaters.

It was in this state of mindlessness that Harry felt the air change. No one else seemed to feel it, but he certainly did, unless the curse had messed with his senses that much. It felt, tense, like the sky was waiting for something. All at once, Harry felt lucid, ready. His body ached like no other, but the energy in the graveyard had shifted. Whether it was a trick of Voldemort’s making, or something was happening for his benefit, Harry didn’t know. But whatever it was, whomever it was, it was powerful.

Perhaps he wasn’t going to die tonight.

Sirius, Ron, Hermione, I’m coming.

\----

“Death rises this night my daughter.”

The last whispers of sleep fled from Daela’s awareness as she slowed her gait, entering the moonlit grove from which her mother’s summons had come. High Priestess Eluir knelt in the shallow pool, naked flesh alight with a brilliance that radiated from beneath the surface of the water. Her pronouncement was no surprise in itself, but the timing could have been better. Her mother’s visions could only be enhanced though, not hastened. The woman held herself rigid, the only sign anyone was ever allowed to see of her anxiety.

Vretha, Eluir’s pale phoenix fluttered down from one of the high trees to land on her companion’s shoulder, frightening away the fireflies that gathered about the woman whenever she gathered her Sight. Daela held out a hand, one of the insects performing a swirling pattern in the air before alighting upon her palm. Such fragile creatures attracted to such intense magic, like humans to an orator.

“Is it as you saw?”

“It could be. Even now he is remaking himself to resist the initial singularity that crushed him before.”

“How many will you send?”

“But one, daughter.”

“Why so few?”

“Because with every variable added to the stream, increases its fragility. I would have one I trust to lead us forward than many I am uncertain of.”

“I have not the strength mother.”

“This night you do. If only for this. Do not make war. Use your strength to protect and only strike if absolutely necessary. The solstice will grant you enough to free the boy.”

“Why?”

“Because if we are to start a war, it must be our ambassador, our diplomat, our outstretched hand, that takes the first step. It must be warranted and clear.”

“I am not ready.”

“Neither is the sun to surrender strength to the moon. This must be your focus my daughter, in mind and magic. You have power in all elements and will be able to understand how he might grow if the worst comes to pass.”

“Your sacrifice.”

“My misery.”

“Then I shall bear your misery for us all mother. If you so command it, I will trust your judgement.”

“I, will not command you daughter. I will insist.”

“As you say.”

Daela turned to leave, to set her physical possessions in order with haste before her departure.

“I love you my daughter.”

Daela walked toward the trees, then paused, taking in the solemn beauty of the clearing. She may never tread upon this land again. This might yet be her final hour. The quiet serenity, she would do her best to carry it with her this night.

“I would have your voice speak my name before I depart.”

There was silence, then, “May all the blessings of earth, sun, stars and moon be upon you Daela my child.”

She continued forward to her doom, knowing that her tears were a match for those her mother’s voice had only half concealed. The graveyard was calling to her, and war. A blasphemy upon their order.

A fragile blessing, hearing her own mother speak her name. Yet, as rare as the very sound of it was, Daela could not help but feel strengthened by it. Daela, her name was Daela, and her mother could call her by it if she so chose. When Eluir loved her most she would do so.

That small firefly flitted about Daela as she gathered what few things she cared to take with her. It remained with her, perched upon a lock of her hair as she breathed in the final breath of sanctuary.

She left it behind; that delicate light, that stubborn presence, that simple companionship, she left it behind as her body slipped through flows of air and magic. Daela felt the taint of death’s own magic upon the air once she solidified amongst tombstones and moonlight. The summer solstice was ending, it’s own last gasp of power gripped within her heart like the final taste of home in her lungs.

Taking the first step forward, toward the revived monster, Daela released the breath of home.


End file.
